I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD SLAPS, SPEED BUMPS and LIGHTBULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

I can maim, torture, kill and
bury my victims alive if I want to. While driving along the highway I see
bodies in the woods because I put them there. I can marry a ninety year old and
kiss a tween. I can be the ninety year old and be the tween. I can swim and
drown and splash and walk on water. I can live to be a 100 year old virgin and
I can be a teenage hooker, kicked out and living on the streets or in a
penthouse. Blow up houses, malls, balloons and my mind, I can suffer in the
rubble and can rescue the bleeding damaged sorry souls in the rubble too. I can
set time bombs, sniff out bombs, decommission mines, plant mines and lose my limbs
while doing so.
Giving birth, stealing babies,
selling babies, saving babies, that’s what I can do.

I’m a famous unknown, I’m a
writer.

I’m like a dog, there’s nothing
gross I cannot be and nothing sweeter than a reassuring paw on a quivering
hand. I imagine everything and forget it all. I make it up as truthfully as I can.
Turn my back on you, stand toe to toe, get in your face, your space, your mind
and up your behind, I am a writer.

I can, and will, and won’t and
refuse to and beg to do it all and do absolutely nothing because I am a writer.
My mind does not work like yours, unless you write.

We are a gang, a group, a line of
misfits reaching to the moon and to the center of the earth. We imagine what
others don’t even want or care to think about because we are writers.

Think about that?

That’s what we do.
We break rules and make them up.

We are writers who can weasel in
and under and crawl beneath your skin all the way up and into your brain. We
can break your heart, make you cry, laugh, throw up, sigh and get high because
our pages smoke.

We have and will continue to
change minds and the world because we are writers. Me, I’m nothing and
everything because...

I

am

a

writer.

So, have a nice day today because
I can make sure you don’t have a nice one tomorrow, and you know why?

Saturday, August 15, 2015

What happens when you run out of time, or actually, when you think you are running out of time? Once we reach the age called “certain”, (the new 50, which is everything above the half century mark), writers become aware of the longevity of projects, as balanced out by, how much time we have left to complete them.

As an unpublished writer of
fiction, do I really want to commit to a year or more, (probably much more), of
completing a novel which may never see a shelf other than my own? Non-fiction,
that’s another story. Been there, done that, am still doing it.

Though it is said there is no prejudice
against older writers in traditional publishing, we all know that is not true. Agents
and publishers look at writers, and the many years of writing ahead for them, to earn
out advances and cash in on the efforts of everyone. In my mind, if all things
are equal but age, it is likely youth will win out?

This whole age vs. time analysis
has become an issue for me. But when I mull the
importance of age considerance I realize we are all of a certain age. None of
us is guaranteed the next few decades, few years, day or hours. Life is
tenuous.

The limits we put on our achievements
and successes are only bound by the efforts we put forth to complete them. Whatever our passion, if we don’t try, don’t finish and
simply dream, wonder and wait, we self-prophesize ourselves to fail.
I breathe, therefore life is endless and achievement possible.

Times Two

My column 'Enough Said' is in 8 ‘Times’ newspapers, a division of The Day in New London, Connecticut. I weekly pitch myself as the writing love-child of Andy Rooney and Erma Bombeck. Not as acerbic as Andy and a bit more modern than Erma, I admire them as winking-paragons of realistic observation. Enoughsaidcolumn.blogspot.com is my tilt on things. Carolynnwith2Ns is my tilt on everything else. Email me at Cpianta@comcast.net
or CP.enoughsaid@aol.com